Nothing has really happened until it is described, therefore write a lot of letters to your family and friends, keep a diary, don’t let a day pass without recording it, whether anything interesting has happened or not; something interesting happens every day. -Virginia Woolf
The misty sound of rain kissing earth this morning is enveloping. I stir making small movements, peaceful in this moment alone. Lying in the circumference of my future, I smile feeling a mixture of cocooned comfort and homecoming excitement as I awaken in the early Georgia morning. Heart rate dancing with subsiding raindrops I venture outside to breakfast with nature.
It is warm winter here.
There is a tree swing in this backyard and it is the single most freeing object I believe I have ever seen.
I like touching it, knowing it was a concept which became reality. It was thought about prior to its existence.
It is cared for not only by the hands which constructed it, but also the massive entwined trunks now and forevermore bonded it to. Siamese twin trunks, limbs locked in an embrace, each branch depending on another for support..
Sitting upon the swing gives me serenity. Swinging on it brings me peace.
Push. Kick. Swing. Release. Push. Kick. Swing. Release. Higher. Push. Kick. Swing. Fly.
Beneath my feet the ground is alive, a universe within itself. Hovering above my thoughts trees stand stoic protectors of my sanity; they are naked now as the leaves have laid claim to this yard.
I imagine the leaves, before Georgia’s rendition of winter, their colors vibrantly alive, blowing in the breeze of discontent, the temptation of earth far too much.
Which leaf led the revolution? Swinging, kicking higher and higher until it detaches and gently sways to earth. Swiftly other leaves follow suit, swinging, twisting, kicking, and detaching in a free fall.
they gather in eclectic hues. Blood red colors draining life into soil, yellow controlled anarchy embedded in a tryst of triumphant browning vibrancy. I am compelled to rake them into one giant pile, climb to the roof and swan dive into the bliss of nature.
I feel home. Safe. Warm. Foreign.
It is quiet here. I am guarded by a century of trees and I wonder if they communicate through the wind. Do they pass stories down from generation to generation? Are young saplings acquainted with narratives of revolutionary leaves and historical lynchings?
Is this innocent childlike swing a hearty welcome from the ancestral cries of past transgressions? This board and rope swinging life instead of taking it? Does the weeping willow weep for the souls of dead men?
Here in the South I am spiritually reminded.
Iya Isoke © January 4, 2008